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Monthly Archives: October 2014

There are days when you feel an overwhelming sense of emptiness, bubbling up from inside you as it proliferates across the mite-sized intricacies of the life-sustaining bio-machinery installed within the capsule of your being, pumping and pulsating in utmost synchronicity with the seconds of this transient world — seconds that flutter by on abstract wings.

How much you feed it, how much you unwittingly nurture the malignant seed of discord planted at the base of your heart — from the very hour your conception is defined, the very second the tactile awareness of your being makes its indelible mark on the tattered records on which this world is built — is what ultimately shapes your end.

There is no way to curb its imminent birth, though with this seed, we have been granted a freedom. A freedom to do with it as we wish.

Subject: Ezekiel Emerson, a seventeen-year-old meta-bounty hunter who prefers to go by his self-conferred alias, ‘Zion’.

In an age rife with crime of supernatural proportions, an adolescent boy joins the ever-growing slew of crime-stomping bounty hunters endowed with Psyches… forsaking a lifetime’s worth of quality education and the model youth’s ideal path to the shining career.

In mid-20xx, former elite high-school debater Ezekiel Emerson (who now goes by the handle ‘Zion’) made an unforeseen departure from the province of learning, choosing instead to pursue the harsh, risk-laden life of combating Psyche-endowed criminals — all at the mere age of seventeen. Gifted with a unique power of his own, he stated that it would’ve been wiser to ‘put it to good use’, as opposed to piling hope on the copious burdens of his single, working father.

“I can’t say for certain that this is the life I truly wanted, but at that point in time, it was the most viable option there was, given both my own circumstances and the state of the city.”

Born on a dreary, November day in the suburban settlement of Rhema Falls, the novice meta-hunter spent two years nuzzled against the bosom of a bright, young woman whose glowing visage he would no longer remember for all the years to come. Deborah Landon poured out every last ounce of care and compassion that was left to muster into the years spent with her second son before falling victim to a fatal case of meningitis — one that ultimately took her life. Zion would then spend the rest of his childhood in the company of his father, a modest clockmaker by the name of Nathan Emerson, and his older brother Theodore.

Notes: A series of drabbles revolving around the hidden woes, unspoken struggles and the inextricable bonds of Project Psyche’s central characters.

I: vermillion
[Written on 1/10/2014]

The moment he watched him press the back of his hand — the despicable, traitorous mark engraved on the back of his hand — against the pale, parched surface of his lips, Gil began to wonder if the heart contained within this friend of his had been sewn together with threads woven in heaven.

He watched as Sandor lifted his eyes — spheres of copper glazed with more hope than he had ever had for just himself — whilst his parted lips remained suspended, hovering like a hallowed ghost over the tainted patch of skin. Gil felt something crack inside him — an interstice he couldn’t have covered up no matter how hard he tried. He kept his consternation chained securely within, bubbling, boiling, and evermore desperate to free itself and let all the world know the utter exhaustion that came with feigning calmness and composure on a daily basis. He pursed his lips and willed all power into the art of suppression, before gently twisting his hand out of Sandor’s grasp, curling fingers that were almost numb around the tender hand to which he owed an immeasurable gratitude as he pulled its owner close.

He heard a faint gasp escape the young man — soft, uncertain, and devoid of the overbearing brashness he so often exuded. “W-wait…,” he murmured, stiffness trapping his motions. “Dude–”

“Thank you,” Gil all but uttered, and Sandor felt himself slacken as the breath of his whispers left invisible tracks all over the curve of his cheek.

“For what?” he replied, softly. “Dude, you’re my friend. I just, well…,” he trailed off, bowing his head slightly. “Just wanted you to know that, y’know. I mean, I don’t give damn what you used to be–”

For accepting, for loving, for knowing, and yet–

Fleeting sparks danced upon the mark that aligned him with the enemy — remnants of contact with lips forged with compassion.

For knowing, and yet…

“Hey, well, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate that,” the iron-wielder hastily chimed in with expert casualness, effectively shrouding the awkwardness that was threatening to manifest. What the hell had he frickin’ done?

Casual he remained as Sandor wound his arms around him, encasing him in an embrace that brought a nascent bitterness to light.

Casual he remained as he raised a hand to pat his back, as wayward, copper-tinted spikes mingled with loose, auburn strands.

Casual he remained as everything within him threatened to collapse.

What the hell had he done?

Angels are beings of discreet benevolence. Their purpose is but to aid — any form of need they may harbour is essentially impertinent.